


Interiority

by Rehfan



Category: James Rhodes - RPF, James Rhodes - pianist
Genre: Break Up, Character Death, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Rhodes has affected the lives of a handful of strangers without his knowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Well? Go and talk to him!” urged Sarah.

“No,” said Olivia. “I couldn’t.” She wiped down the table and tried not to stare at the man at the corner booth by the window.

“You can take his order quick enough,” said Sarah. “You never have any trouble with that. And you know he always gets the same thing every time.”

“Not every time,” said Olivia. “Last week he skipped getting the pain au chocolat.”

“Oh bloody hell,” said Sarah. “You’re keeping track of his diet now, are you? You are desperate to shag him.” She giggled softly. So far the man in the corner hadn’t noticed them. He was too engrossed with reading his paper and tapping his fingers on the table top.

Olivia always wondered about that. He’d usually order the same thing every time he came in, but he would always sit by the window where there was plenty of light and read his paper and tap his fingers as though he were playing an invisible keyboard. Was he nervous about something? Was it just a habit? Or was it something else?

“He seems a bit barmy to me,” said Sarah right in Olivia’s ear. She was closer than expected and Olivia jumped a bit. “Sorry,” said Sarah. “I knew he got you hot. I didn’t know he made you jumpy.” She teased. She was always teasing. It wasn’t fair. Sarah was just as single as she was but she seemed to always have a date with one bloke or another. Olivia could never pull. Not even with the skinny guy in glasses sitting in the corner where there was plenty of light and tapping his fingers like he was barmy.

Olivia sighed and went back behind the counter and into the back room to replace the washrag. “You should really go talk to him,” said Sarah. “Barmy or not, you’ve got to get laid.”

“Oi! That’s my business!” said Olivia, blushing a deep crimson. “And besides, how do I know that he’s single? Could be that he’s got a wife and four kids.”

“Nah,” said Sarah giving him a glance from the doorway and across the room. “Couldn’t be. His socks don’t match.” They both looked out of the back room door and observed. Sarah was right; he had two different stripy socks on. Suppressing a giggle, they both ducked back in to the room, their mouths covered to hide their smiles. “If he had a wife, she would see to it that his socks matched,” said Sarah with confidence. “He needs someone to take care of him,” she added. “And that’s you, right enough. You worry about me like a bloody mother hen, and I’m just your mate. God knows the carrying on you could do with a bloke like him in your life.”

Olivia smiled at the thought of having someone to dote on and take care of. It seemed pleasant, but only if he were agreeable. With a frown she remembered the last man she tried to watch out for. She thought straightening his scarf would be a sweet gesture, perhaps even a bit flirtatious. She certainly didn’t mean for it to come across as her being too smothering. But that’s what David had said it was. “You’re too fucking clingy,” he wrote to her. He broke up with her via a private message on Facebook. Sarah said that made him a class-A git, and she was right. Olivia heaved another sigh and looked at Sarah. “I’ll talk to him,” she said and nervously added: “But not today. Next time he comes in.” Sarah let out an exasperated sigh. “I promise!” said Olivia.

 

~080~

 

“Good morning, Mr. Rhodes!” said Stephen. He always greeted the young man with a smile and a wave and watched him walk through the showroom to the practice rooms. Mr. Rhodes seemed a dedicated young man; Stephen could vouch for that what with seeing him so often. He was tempted to listen at the door to see if the young Mr. Rhodes’s dedication was paying off, but he had been working for the Steinway Company for so long, he’d learned not to give in to such temptation. The few times he had in the past – and admittedly this was many years ago – he always walked away disappointed. Somehow it was a bit like seeing the puppet show from backstage: clumsy, hunched-over people struggling to maneuver and speaking in funny voices. It took some of the magic away.

He swept a soft cloth over the keys of one of the pianos on display. A light tinkling of music greeted his ears as he lovingly dusted. The highest keys and lowest keys seemed to always be the most neglected and he took extra care to see that they were cleaned off properly.

Stephen used to play. Professionally, that is. He remembered hearing a recording of Gould playing when he was still learning, and he was riveted. Even as a younger man, relatively inexperienced in his musicianship, he could tell that Gould was a master. The music seemed to leave the man’s fingers and drift across the room. He tried to see Gould in concert, but by then the man was practically a musical recluse. Went a bit mad, they say. Too bad really. Stephen would have loved to see him play.

Stephen sighed. Gould made him never want to play again. It was funny: some people heard Gould and got inspired. Stephen heard Gould and knew he could never master the instrument. He could play the notes; any fool could do that, given time and enough training. But Stephen could never get the notes to be… musical. He couldn’t get the piece to speak to his soul the way Gould or Ashkenazy or Horowitz could do. Stephen considered himself a lost cause.

It was early morning yet and Stephen went behind the sales desk and turned on some music for the showroom. Beethoven wafted from the speakers. It was Gould again. Stephen knew every piece almost by heart. There was a crescendo in the middle of this one that made him want to weep. Instead he smiled and thought about his dear wife. They met at a piano recital. She was taking lessons from his instructor as well and she had played Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”. She and he were coming up on their forty-third wedding anniversary soon. He would have to think of a novel present for her.

He closed his eyes and tried to coax Herr Von Beethoven into helping him select a good gift for his beloved. As the movement ended, the music player skipped the next movement in favor of a piece by Mozart. Disturbed, Stephen opened his eyes and let out an annoyed grunt. Charise would have to fix that damnable thing when she got in. They couldn’t let their customers think that they were so ignorant as to skip two whole movements in a Beethoven piece. After all, this was Steinway!

He never understood why records went out of fashion. They were so much simpler, so much more straight forward. You place the needle on the record and walk away, no muss, no fuss, no repeat button, no skip track button. It was done and dusted in an instant and if you wanted to listen to something again, you simply replaced the needle. Vaguely he wondered if he could get a hold of a record player. His had bit the dust years ago. And he seemed to recall having a vinyl recording or two of Gould. Somewhere in the attic, he thought. He would have to dig it out and play it for Sylvia. That would please her. And what a wonderful anniversary gift.

 

~080~

 

“Some skinny white guy let me sit on the tube today,” said Jonathan.

“What?” said Carla, digging in her bag for her pencil and notes.

“Just what I said: some skinny white guy let me sit down on the tube,” said Jonathan.

“Why?” asked Carla.

“I dunno,” said Jonathan with a shrug. “Gave up his seat like I was preggo. Guess he was just trying to be nice. Had a smile on his face and all. Bit weird.”

“Sounds barmy to me,” said Carla. “Tell me you’ve got the notes for this class. I’ma freak out if I can’t find mine.” She continued to churn over multitudes of paper that sat haphazardly in the bottom of her school duffel.

“You fail this test, Mr. Green going to skin you alive. Trust,” said Jonathan.

“No shit, mate!” said Carla. She was getting desperate now. The bell had almost rung. There was to be a test on JS Bach today. They were in their seats, ready to go, but Carla was breaking out in a sweat digging for papers that would simply not present themselves and without her notes to review before the test, she knew she was going to fail.

Jonathan smirked and watched Carla squirm. “You need the notes, yeah?” he asked.

Carla looked at him, her brow furrowed and damp. “Yeah! You know I do!”

“And you skived off school last week without me, yeah?” asked Jonathan.

Carla stopped and stared at her friend. “What?” Jonathan just grinned at her. Carla rolled her eyes. “What do you want in exchange?”

“Oh, nothing special,” said Jonathan. “Just… your sister’s mobile number.”

“Oh, fuck you!” said Carla.

“MISS Falk!” said Mr. Green. The music teacher had come into the room unnoticed by the two. Their heads snapped up in response. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Carla stood. All eyes were on her. “Sorry, sir,” she said weakly.

“Alright then,” said Mr. Green, waving a hand to let Carla know she could sit once more, “now that the cursing portion of school has been dispensed with, I’m going to pass out these consent forms to you. You are to get your parents to sign them so that you may attend a musical field trip with me in two weeks. We will be seeing a classical music concert here in the city. Attendance is mandatory unless your parents don’t sign one of these. And if you don’t go, you may not pass the follow-up exam. I’m just warning you.”

 

~080~

 

“I have the best news!” said Sarah waving her arms about dramatically.

Olivia couldn’t help but smile. “What?” she asked. “You finally rented me that art studio that I’ve always wanted?” Olivia’s creative outlet was painting. She loved oils, but her landlord would never approve, so she turned her hand to watercolors. By Sarah’s account, she was really very good.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I haven’t won the lottery yet, you goose. No… I got those tickets that Randall wanted!” said Sarah.

“Fantastic!” said Olivia. “But… I thought that you hated that sort of thing.”

“Oh I do,” said Sarah with a smirk. “But I love Randy Randall!” The two women laughed. “I just hope he appreciates all I do for his dick.” They giggled again.

“How good are the seats?” asked Olivia.

“Pretty good, I guess,” she said, looking at the tickets sideways. “Who cares? It’ll shut him up and get him hot. That’s all I care about.”

“You are such a sex fiend,” said Olivia.

Their manager poked his head in the break room and declared: “Will the “sex fiend” and her friend mind opening up this morning? Or am I working by myself?”

The two girls rolled their eyes and got to their feet.

 

~080~

 

Sylvia Foster was a happily married woman of sixty-eight years of age and she had gotten some bad news today. She wasn’t too sure how to tell her husband what the doctor had said. She wasn’t too sure what to think of it all herself. She would have to tell him tonight, however. Her physician had already made the referral appointment for Tuesday.

Sylvia was so happy with Stephen. He had a good job working for a company he loved. Steinway had been terribly good to both of them all these years, and not just because of a pay cheque. Pianos had always featured in their lives: they met at a piano recital, they both played, and occasionally Stephen would come home to tell her about the musicians that came through to practice. There was one in particular of which her husband was especially fond.

“Mr. Rhodes pop in today?” she asked him that evening. She had the news weighing on her mind and she needed the distraction.

“Hm?” Stephen said, distractedly. “What? Oh yes, yes he did.”

“Did you listen at the door?” she asked playfully. She knew he had done that in the past.

“Not today, dear,” he smiled at her.

“Are you afraid that he won’t be any good?” she asked.

“I’m always afraid of mediocrity in musicianship,” he replied with a sad smile.

They ate their dinner in silence for a bit. Sylvia picked at her food. Stephen seemed not to notice. Yet he broke the quiet by saying: “I’ve been giving some thought to our anniversary.”

“Oh?” she said. With the news she had gotten today, she had forgotten all about it. It was coming up fast. In twelve days, she noted. “Did you decide on something?” she asked him, hoping he would regale her with a tale of the pursuit of the perfect romantic gift.

He gave her a sly smile. “I did, I think. I hope you’ll like it.”

“I will, I’m sure,” she said, disappointed that he wasn’t helping her cause.

“Have you gotten me a gift?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, “I think I have an idea of what you’d like, but I have to do a little hunting first.” He smiled and tucked back into his meal again. “But…” she continued. “After we have dinner, there’s something I have to tell you.”

Stephen brought his head up, a quizzical look passing about his features.

 

~080~

 

“Honestly, mum,” said Sharon. “Why do you want to do this? You know the doctor said-“

“Stop,” said Sylvia. “There will be no more discussion of this. You will do this for me please. Now look him up on that thing, will you? There’s a good girl.”

Sharon shrugged and gave in. Her mother was nothing if not stubborn; even after a diagnosis like hers, she still pressed on. Sharon opened up her laptop and began a Google search of a man named James Rhodes, a pianist.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonathan had known Carla his whole life. And she had been a bit of a mess his whole life. She was always the one in trouble for not competing assignments, being late, skiving school, getting caught smoking on school property, the lot. But he loved her anyway.

He loved her smile, especially the crafty one that she’s show to him and only him when she was up to something wicked that he knew he’d have to get her out of.

The color of her eyes were a deep chocolate brown he would love to get lost in, and in the more quiet moments of the evening in the privacy of his own room, he had. He had imagined her in all sorts of ways, sometimes lewd situations, but most of the time with a romantic mood set: champagne, firelight, bear skin rugs, that sort of thing.

And he loved her touch as well. They would brush arms occasionally walking down the corridors of school. Fingers would kiss when handing over items, one to the other. But Jonathan’s favorite was when Carla was in a friendly mood and would fling an arm around him companionably. On one occasion, she had even walked along with him like that and for a moment, she was his and he was hers. But it turned out to be just the once.

As he tried not to stare at her in history (he hated history), she stared straight ahead. It was funny how she liked the things he detested and he was good in the opposite way. They just seemed to fit. But the one class they both loved was music study. Their teacher was no-nonsense, but the music was amazing.

They would joke around and conduct while listening to their MP3 players in the library using their pencils as batons and they would laugh and laugh and laugh. Their recognition of certain pieces and the different television advertisements that would use them was almost like a contest. “Boots has a new advert using the music from 2001: A Space Odyssey,” Carla would say.

Jonathan would one-up her by correcting her: “It’s called “Also Spoke Zara-something-or-other, you clot.”

She would pout and come back with: “Yeah, well I don’t think that’s the proper title, is it, berk?”

He loved it when she pouted. She really was quite lovely. He was so happy he had her in his life.

But he didn’t dare tell her.

He wished he had talent enough to write her a piece of music; anything to show how much he cared about her. But he couldn’t. If he tried, she would laugh. And even though he loved her laugh, if she managed to so much as giggle at him if he did this for her, he was sure he would curl up into a ball and die.

 

~080~

 

Olivia put an arm around Sarah. This was bad. “He lied to me,” Sarah sobbed.

“I know,” said Olivia softly, as she stroked Sarah’s hair soothingly.

“The bastard,” Sarah said.

“I know,” said Olivia. It was really awful. Usually Sarah was the one to do the dumping, so when Randall had sat her down last night and told her that he was going back to his ex, Sarah was devastated.

“He said he didn’t love her anymore,” said Sarah, wiping at her eyes with a tissue. “He’s a fucking liar and I hope he chokes.” She was wracked with a new round of crying. Olivia comforted her as best she could. After a while, the tears subsided a bit. This was quite the role reversal: usually it was Olivia crying with a broken heart, not Sarah.

“I’ll just go put on some tea,” said Olivia and she rose to go to Sarah’s tiny kitchen.

Sarah grabbed her arm as she stood and Olivia turned to look at her heartbroken friend. “Thanks so much, ‘Liv. You’re a real pal.” After a pause she added: “Paint me a portrait of him, will you? That way I can burn it in effigy.”

Olivia gave her a laugh saying, “That’s a waste of good art supplies, I’ll have you know,” and headed off again to put the kettle on. She filled it, plugged it in, and was reaching for the tea when she spotted it. “Oh Christ,” she said. The flat was so small it was hard for Sarah not to hear her friend.

She looked up from the sofa and said: “What is it?”

“Your concert tickets,” said Olivia. “The ones you bought him. They’re sat here. What are you going to do with them?”

“Burn them,” said Sarah storming toward the kitchen.

“What?” said Olivia, snatching them up and holding them away from her. “No! Don’t do that!”

“Why not?” asked Sarah. “I only bought them for him, not me.”

Olivia looked at Sarah for a moment as though she had an epiphany. “Let’s go,” she said.

“What?” asked Sarah. “Whatd’you mean? You and me?”

“Yeah! Sure! Why not?” asked Olivia. “It’s not as if Randall’s going to be there.”

“Well… no,” said Sarah. “But it’s classical music shite. I hate that music.”

“No you don’t!” said Olivia. “What about all those sappy romantic movies you like to watch? That’s nothing but classical soundtracks in most of them.”

“Yeah,” Sarah retorted. “But that’s the movies. This is a piano concert. It’ll be rubbish. Boring. Up-its-own-arse music for poncey gits like Randall.”

“Which is precisely why we should go!” said Olivia, having another breakthrough. “We could dress down completely: jeans, trainers, the lot. And we should applaud at all the wrong times. And we might bring snacks like we’re seeing a film. What are they going to do? Kick us out?”

Sarah laughed. “Probably.” After a moment she gave Olivia a sly grin. “Let’s do it anyway.”

 

~080~

 

Sylvia held Stephen’s gift to her in her lap as she lay on the hospital bed. “Happy anniversary, dear,” he said. She smiled delicately and opened the large square box. Inside was the vinyl recording of Gould’s Goldberg Variations from 1955. “Do you remember this?” he asked her.

“Yes,” she said weakly, tears filling her eyes. “You played this recording for me on our first date in 1969.”

Stephen couldn’t help himself, he began to well up too. “You looked so lovely in that pink dress,” he told her. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I still can’t.”

She smiled at him. “And you brought me tulips. I never gave tulips much of a thought, until you. Now they’re my favorite.” She looked down at their hands clasped together. “So much has changed; but never the music, and never the tulips.” She looked him in the eye and told him most sincerely: “I love you, Stephen Foster.” They kissed softly. Gathering her strength, she said: “Now open mine.”

He slid the ribbon off the small rectangular box and opened it. “Tickets,” he said. “To a concert by… well.”

“I thought you might like to see your Mr. Rhodes in concert,” said Sylvia. “That is him, isn’t it? Sharon helped me get them.”

“I think it is,” said Stephen. “She’s a good girl, our Sharon.” He paused. “This concert isn’t for another ten days.” He looked at her sadly.

“I know,” she said as she patted his hand. “I’ll be there. Don’t you worry.” She laid her head back against the pillows, exhausted by the effort of sitting up. She smiled at Stephen, attempting to reassure him, but they both knew the doctors weren’t wrong about her. “And if I can’t, I’ll send along an angel to keep you company.”

Just then the nurse came in to check on her chemo bags. “Everything looks good here,” said the nurse. “Just one more bag to go and you’re done for today, Mrs. Foster.”


	3. Chapter 3

The concert hall filled quickly and Sarah and Olivia wondered why no one stopped them when they saw how they were dressed – until they saw everyone else. Most women had pretty dresses and some of the men dressed in casual trousers, but everyone seemed to be wearing something rather comfortable. Sarah and Olivia contemplated wearing their pyjama bottoms and some dirty t-shirts, but they ultimately couldn’t bring themselves to do it. They settled on torn jeans, Converse trainers, and some band t-shirts that they were sure would raise a few eyebrows. 

No one batted an eye.

They did bring popcorn, enough to feed their whole row, and it sat between them like a third guest in their party. Sarah sat on the aisle, Olivia next to her and they waited patiently for the rest of the audience to take their seats.

The feeling in the place was not of ostentatious reverence, but eager anticipation. This didn’t feel like a concert filled with pretentious music; it felt like an intimate rock concert.

A group of secondary school children filed into the row in front of them and took their seats. Sarah nudged Olivia as she noticed the nervous boy in front of them. “He looks like he’s going to be sick,” she whispered with a giggle.

The boy’s brown eyes flitted to the girl on his left. She paid him no heed but went on and on about something neither Sarah nor Olivia could make out. The boy nodded along, still staring until the girl finally spoke up and said: “What is your problem, Jon?”

He seemed to snap out of his reverie and stuttered: “N-nothing.” He looked away, focusing on the promotional program in his hand.

“Well anyways…” she continued, giving him a sidelong glance of suspicion and proceeded to bombard him with her story once again. 

Sarah giggled again. “They’re so cute!” she said. Olivia hushed her and as she did, she noticed an older man standing at the other side of Sarah, his tickets in one hand, a bouquet of tulips in the other.

“Are these your seats, sir?” Olivia said to him, referring to two empty chairs beside her.

He smiled and nodded. The two girls rose up (taking their popcorn with them) and allowed the man to pass. He set the bouquet on the seat next to Olivia and sat in the other. Several more minutes went by and Olivia was just beginning to wonder what was keeping the man’s wife when the house lights went down and the pianist took the stage.

Thunderous applause greeted him as he walked into the spotlight. Olivia could hardly credit her eyes: it was the man from the coffee shop! What the hell? Olivia looked at Sarah and Sarah looked at her, the same stunned and pleased expression on her face. “Well what do you know?” said Sarah. “You know what this is, don’t you?” she asked Olivia over her own clapping. “This is a fucking sign, ‘Liv. You MUST ask him out now. No going back.” Olivia pushed back into her seat, mouth agape, shocked to her shoes. “And just think,” said Sarah as the applause died down, “now you know his name.”

James Rhodes sat at the piano and began to play.

 

~080~

 

As the first piece ended, Carla smiled at Jonathan as she clapped. “That was awesome,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Jonathan agreed. He was wondering vaguely if this was what the concert was going to be like. This guy was weird: he dressed in trainers and jeans with a stripy shirt and Jonathan thought at first that he was a roadie come out to shift the piano about for the actual musician, but then the weird bloke sat and played the damn thing.

Anything he had ever seen on YouTube for classical music was always the same: formally dressed people playing their instruments for quiet respectful audiences. No chatter, no banter, no explanations. He wondered if he should be taking notes and he looked down the row of his fellow students to see if they had thought the same thing. Everyone was too busy applauding to focus on schoolwork.

The snap of a live microphone coming on caught his attention and he realized that the man in jeans and trainers on stage was about to address them. This was definitely weird. And there was something about the guy that Jonathan recognized. He looked familiar, but he couldn’t place him.

As Mr. Rhodes spoke about the piece he just played, Jonathan realized why his teacher had selected this guy to see in concert. He was cool. He explained shit. And he dropped the f-bomb on the regular. All the students laughed out loud when he did that. This was definitely NOT your grandfather’s classical music concert. Fucking brilliant.

And he was mental at playing too. His next piece was one they had studied in class: Beethoven’s “Waldstein Sonata”. He glanced at Carla who was already sitting up with excitement. She was really loving this concert. Her attention was focused completely on Rhodes as he played, but when the third movement hit, the one they call “The Dawn Sonata”, she closed her eyes and Jonathan thought that if she ever knew how he felt that he could just lean over and kiss her cheek. Rhodes had mentioned something about “interiority” before he began and Jonathan could now see why. If he had to choose, this third and final movement would be his soundtrack to Carla’s soul, she was that beautiful to him.

“What the hell,” he mumbled and leaned over to peck her cheek.

Carla’s eyes flew open and she looked at him as if to say: “Well it’s about damn time, you berk.” She smiled and kissed him softly on the mouth.

Barely believing his luck, Jonathan held Carla’s hand as they enjoyed the rest of the piece that was forever theirs.

 

~080~

 

Olivia was so excited to be there. She had a drink in the interval and when they regained their seats, she gave a glance to the man who sat beside her. Perhaps it was the glass of wine she had consumed, but she couldn’t help but feel for the man. Clearly he was on a date and she had stood him up. The tulips sat in the chair, ignored. The man sat still in his seat, never having moved to join the rest in the bar. At his advanced age, she thought he was probably quite lonely.

She wanted to speak to him, but by the time she had screwed up enough courage to say anything, Sarah was back from the toilet and began chatting about what Olivia’s plan of attack should be when next they encountered the now famous Mr. James Rhodes.

Soon into their plotting, the lights dimmed again and they looked up to realize that the interval was over and Mr. Rhodes had once again taken the stage. He played quite an angry piece and when it was over, he explained about how Rachmaninov was a cure for all anger management issues, much to the audience’s delight.

He then began to speak of Chopin. As he explained about Chopin’s shyness and his adoration of women from afar, Olivia brightened inside. She supposed she was very much like Chopin. She didn’t write music, of course. But she did paint. Watercolor mostly, but it was a way of expressing herself without making too much mess and irritating her landlord. She had already had a few small sketches she had done of the mysterious stranger from the coffee shop, but as he waxed romantic about Chopin, she wondered if he would mind if she did an actual watercolor of him. It would be a nice way to break the ice, at any rate. She smiled to herself. Yes, that would do nicely, she thought.

 

~080~

 

She had died on the following Tuesday. Their anniversary was the last time he saw her smile. The coma came on quickly and she was in and out of lucidity for three days before she passed. For a long time Stephen had contemplated not going to the concert. After all, it was going to fall on the Wednesday after her burial. It was too soon.

Out of some kind of a sadistic fit of melancholy, he had decided to put Gould’s Goldberg Variations on. He placed the needle on the record and turned the volume up on the brand new record player that he had purchased for Sylvia and sat back on the bed. Gould played and faintly hummed to the music. Stephen used to find it annoying, but he had since learned to listen past it and enjoy the playing. His interpretation was indeed the most moving Stephen had ever heard.

He had glanced over and spotted the tickets in their envelope wedged into the frame of their bedroom mirror. She had promised that she would be there. It was a promise she couldn’t keep.

Sharon had wanted to stay with him for a day or two after her burial. She was a good girl, but she tended to hover and after a day, he told her that he had had enough. He was exhausted. She had seen the tickets and asked if he still intended to go. He asked her: “Why would I?” She pressed her lips in a tight line the way Sylvia used to do when she was annoyed.

“Because Mum got them for you especially,” she said. “You can’t ignore her, Dad. Not on your last anniversary.” She had sat beside him on the bed and held his hand. “Please, Daddy. Go. For Mum.”

He could never say no to either of them. He had put on his best suit, his old trilby, and bought a bouquet of tulips. As the first half of the program’s music washed over him, all he could think was: “Wouldn’t Sylvia have loved that piece? Wouldn’t she have loved that movement? Dear God…”

As everyone left the theater in the interval, he remained seated. There were a few others who chose to stay, but there was no one around him to see him bring a handkerchief to his eyes. He glanced at the neglected flowers in the chair beside him. They were so lovely. They were pink, just like her dress on their first date. He smiled sadly at them. “You really are here, aren’t you, my love?” he murmured aloud.

The concert began again and Stephen waited for the last shoe to drop. He waited for the end of the concert so that he could go home and feel empty again. He felt a pocket of anger build within him and the Rachmaninov that Mr. Rhodes was playing alleviated some of his misplaced rage.

There was a Chopin piece that reminded him of the time they visited the National Gallery shortly after their honeymoon. The light hit her face so beautifully at one point that he felt his breath catch. He had almost forgotten that moment until the music began. His heart decided that “Romanza” would be the soundtrack to that moment in his life.

As the piece ended and everyone was applauding, Stephen felt cheated. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t tell her all that had entered his head. He wanted to whisper in her ear about his memories of her. He wanted to have this moment with her now. And where was she? What did he have left? He wanted to climb to the top of the tallest building and scream at God. Where was his Sylvia? Where was his love? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

Rhodes had gone on to explain something about Bach. The audience tittered with laughter at something he had said, but Stephen couldn’t focus. He was too busy being cut to the quick by Sylvia’s absence.

He placed his hand over the bouquet to steady himself, letting the tears well up in his eyes. Music began and he recognized it as Bach’s “Chaconne”. His wedding ring shone in the low light and through the mist of his tears he saw a hand cover his. Blinking, he looked up to see the young girl that was sitting on the other side of Sylvia’s seat smiling at him. He returned a weak grin, thanking her for her sympathy with his eyes.

The music that, for Bach, represented a cathedral to the death of his wife connected with Stephen on the most profound level. And he was eternally grateful for the well-timed sympathetic touch of a stranger. Closing his eyes, he thanked Sylvia for sending her angel as she said she would.

Everything was going to be alright. Sylvia would never leave. They would always have the music.


End file.
